Living in Memories
by shadows-of-1832
Summary: They knew each other at a time, even had a life together, but after her father found her and he fought for his cause at the barricade, they are complete strangers. What they hear of the past, sounds like someone else's life. Canon-era (post-barricade)
1. Shortness of Time

The late night air was cool and damp, in such a manner some would find odd for an early June night. Dark clouds, heavy with rain, covered the sky, leaving little room for even the slightest amount of pale moonlight to shine through.

The normally-crowded Parisian streets were deserted by this time, not a soul daring the risk to be caught out in the oncoming storm. Many families were nestled within their homes, safe and dry, gathered by the hearth, fathers telling stories, wives clearing the remnants of their late meals, children preparing to go to bed. Such was the case for the majority of those who could afford that luxury.

Meanwhile, the less fortunate had desperately taken shelter wherever they could find—an old abandoned home, an old rag, a wooden crate, whatever could be used to lessen the amount of water that they would inevitably be soaked in within the shadows of the alleys. Families huddled together to stay dry where they could, some parents doing what they could to shield their sons and daughters from such conditions, a few risking their freedom by stealing what goods they could find lying around. Loners secluded themselves wherever they could fit to keep dry, or at least as much as they possibly could. Much of this was the case throughout the seemingly-empty streets.

The system of cobblestone streets were still pooled with rain, the smell of dirt and dust and sickness being distinctly more present than how it would be on a normal summer day. The puddles in most areas were a pale brown color, the clear liquid of water mixing with the filth of the streets, the ill-appearing pool having an unknown depth. The regular collection of dust had been washed away to the sewers or the Seine in the earlier rain, for the most part, though in scattered places traces of it remained.

A typical rainy night…

Except it wasn't.

Upon further inspection, one would notice the placement of walls throughout the narrow and quiet streets, each of them built with wood, metal, of dozens of materials, carts, wagon wheels, lampposts, creating fortresses meant for protection and the chance of survival. One would notice the scattering of debris, countless of shattered objects littering the stones. One would notice the remnants of gunpowder painting those near it a sooty black shade. Cannon balls left shards of glass lying on the floor where the fragile surface shattered, the shapes of bullet holes making their appearance in even the smallest of places, leaving nowhere safe for its intended target. One would notice the covering of bodies, lying askew upon the cold ground and the ruined structure, some clad in blue and red military uniforms, the others wearing what one would see them wear on a day-to-day basis.

One would notice the red cobblestones, the blood of the deceased and the wounded, that left pools of the scarlet liquid in the depressions of stone and between the cracks of rock. Some could notice the trails of blood from those scattering, trying to escape their inevitable fate before being met with their demise. The smears of blood of the wall could imply that at one point or another some had struggled in desperation to save their companions before taking flight, only to find that death found them shortly afterwards. The smears of blood on the floors and stones suggested that one dying or one that already had become a corpse had been dragged away from the scene, most likely by thieves who hoped to benefit from the deceased, those who would probably never be found. One particular location, an old café in shambles, had blood smears and drips just outside its second story window, which many found odd, as none had seen one shot down in such a position, none that would care to admit seeing someone lose their life in such a way.

Whoever had their life ended there, their corpse was nowhere to be found.

As the one dawn of death passed and gave way to the dark night, the fallen had been near to forgotten. Only the beginning of cleaning up the massacre had occurred shortly after fighting had ceased. It was in the darkness where the desperate ones would prowl about in search of anything useful off of the unfortunate souls who had perished in their final battle, and as soon as the rain began to pour that night, they fled the scene, taking shelter wherever they could find it.

Few of these prowlers had their attention drawn to a young woman, her clothes tattered and worn, tending to an unconscious man deep within the alleys, figuring she was most likely searching the pockets of a heavily drunk man who had passed out in the thin passageways, that she was hoping to find a hefty amount of francs to help her get through the day, maybe even a week, if she was lucky. This attention, however, only lasted for so long before they moved on in search of their next target.

None of them had looked closer to see what the woman had actually been doing. Their ignorance did not allow them to see the wet, bloody rags in her hands as she struggled to find some part of the once-white fabric to be free of the scarlet liquid to remove some of the gunpowder and dried blood from the man's face. The rain provided little help.

She delicately took care of his wounds, not wanting to cause any more pain than he was already in. He would need a doctor soon, she noted. She had dealt with the cuts and stabbing of knives and the bruising and broken ribs as a result of her abuse and living on the streets, but the bullet wounds in his shoulder, chest, and thigh were things she had no experience for, and her trying to tend to them herself was a risk she was unwilling to take.

Despite this, she feared for his safety after-the-fact, if he survived this. Bringing him to a doctor would give a chance to the authorities to seize those who dared to oppose the monarchy. As much as his wounds should not go untreated, was professional help the best option? Could she risk the chance of removing the bullets herself or seek out one who knew better? Then again, would the man before her last long either way?

A small, painful groan caused her to take a step back from him, as the man stiffly moved before emitting a sharp hiss of pain. His still-soiled yet pale face contorted as she watched him come to the realization of the situation he was in. His steel blue eyes looked up at her in anguish, suggesting that he was making her aware of his suffering, though that much was not necessary. It was easy enough through the blood-stained shirt and the amount of the scarlet liquid that had slowed to a trickle from his wounds.

She moved towards him to wipe the dried blood from his brow, ignoring the wince from him as the cloth came into contact with his skin. His breath shook as he made a small effort to move away from her, but the attempt proved to be too much for him, between his pain and how weak the blood loss had caused him to be. She could sense the small amount of tension from him, but eventually that disappeared and he relaxed, the strain being enough for him to do so reluctantly.

"There is no reason to fret, monsieur," she told him gently. "I only mean to help."

He tried to form a reply, but even that appeared to be too difficult for him, his breath shaking as he opened his mouth to try to speak. No words came.

She returned once more to wiping off the dirt and gunpowder and whatever else was clinging on to his skin, trying to avoid his anguished winces and cries. He did not remove his sight from her once, and she didn't argue with the choice, for they had only just met, as far as she can recall. He did not have any reason to trust her in any manner, other than that instead of letting him die, she tried helping him, and still was.

The man lifted an arm as if he was trying to push her away, but did not have the energy to do so. She knew he was near death, but what could she possibly do? She herself was not of much strength. Emotionally, she had strength, but physically, she didn't. She knew that lifting him up and carrying him was not an option. Also, if she brought him to a doctor, who was to pay for his care? She barely had a sous to her name, and she was unaware of his financial situation. For all she knew, the man could have stolen the vermillion coat from someone dead in the street.

"That was quite a battle there, wasn't it, monsieur?" Her attempt at making a conversation was weak within her mind, but it was better than nothing. It was something she would rather hear than the awkward silence between them. However, she knew he would not reply, and she hadn't forgotten that his strength was slowly slipping away.

He struggled to reply once more, but he became crestfallen at the sound of her question. She watched him quickly deteriorate by the end of his effort, and time was moving against them just as fast.

"You need a doctor. Have you the knowledge of one?" she asked, and she received a curt nod in reply, few of the things he could manage. "Where?" A slight movement of his uninjured shoulder, suggesting he had no clue of where they were and could not direct her there from their current standpoint.

"Can you stand?" He gave her a dumbfounded look before shaking his head. He gestured with his head towards his leg, before trying to suppress an anguished grunt. He leaned his head back against the wall, his attempt to prevent his cries from being vocalized.

She feared for him more now, for certain that she could not find another with more knowledge than her in the medical field to help him. She knew that by asking some random stranger on the street at this time of night was useless, between the recent events and what one might expect afterwards as a reward.

_Time is running out_, she reminded herself. Perhaps if she left him here to die, she would be able to forget all of this in time. Maybe she would be better off. However, she did not have the heart to do that, especially after doing what she had done and trying her best to aid him. She couldn't leave him alone like this, a man who was practically a stranger to her. If he was to die, then she would at least sit by and wait for it to come to him. That was all she could do.

She saw the grim expression on his face, signifying that he was probably aware of his inevitable fate. She could not tell, though, if he accepted it.

She stood up straight to her full height, taking in a deep breath, accessing any other possible options, but after pondering them for only a few moments, she reached the conclusion that they were of no use to her. She sat down beside him in defeat, edging towards his less-injured side. For a moment, he appeared ready to protest her being at his side, only to then allow her to come closer, perhaps reluctantly, or maybe because he had come to the realization that he was not likely to survive the night.

She nestled close to him, minding his bullet wounds and the other possible injuries that she could not see. He hissed when she leaned her on his uninjured shoulder, before she noticed a deep gash there that had been hidden his coat. He was in pain more than she had originally thought.

"My apologies." she whispered to him before leaning her back against the wall. "I didn't know."

He nodded a curt reply, an acceptance of her apology.

There were a few moments of silence before a sound interrupted the pouring rain. He shook slightly, his breathing becoming a struggle for him, and it hitched for a second before he was capable of catching air. He gasped for it for some time before it eased to shallow breaths, him finally able to gain control of it once more. His death was near.

"I'm here, monsieur." she reminded him, taking his hand into hers, careful not to disturb any of his injuries. She saw a hint of a smile on his face for a short minute, before it disappeared just as quickly as he let out a small cry of pain. She could only comfort him now.

"I won't leave you here." _Not while you're still alive_. She placed a light kiss upon his forehead that he cringed from, perhaps not able to understand what could be considered an intimate gesture, rather improper between strangers. "I will not leave you here alone."

Something, maybe a trick of the shattered moonlight, allowed her to see a mournful expression upon the man's face. He accepted his fate by now, which was obvious to her. He knew that he would not make it to see the dawn's early light. He would be lucky if he made it through the end of the storm. However, there was something else she was unable to pick up on that he managed to shield from her, and perhaps she never would, as much as she wished to.

After a small struggle, she felt the slight weight of his hand on her stomach. It was a sign of affection that normally she would yell at someone for, especially someone she barely knew, but just this once, she allowed it. Little movements and gestures were all he could communicate with now, that or his pain and being near death caused impaired judgment.

She couldn't ignore it, though, and she knew what he meant. Even in death he was able to make the observation.

"I'm surprised you noticed." she said quietly, placing a hand on top of his. She ran her free hand along her stomach, just brushing her fingertips where their two hands were together. "Maybe it is that obvious now."

He blinked slowly a few times, keeping them open becoming a struggle for him, before he nodded in reply.

"I suppose I should accept it, then." She took a deep breath, her eyes on where their hands were. "At least I won't be alone anymore."

She felt his hand move underneath hers, as if he was trying to grasp her hand for comfort, but who it was mean for…It could have gone either way.

"I am alone otherwise. _You_ are the lucky one, monsieur. There's no more suffering once our mortal coil has been shuffled off." It was a harsh comment for her to make, the claim of him dying being a good thing. He could have a family to support, a wife at home, with children to raise. He could be their sole breadwinner, the only one capable of ensuring their survival without having to make the desperate struggle in search of food. Without him, they would no sooner end up like her. The moment she finished it, she felt regret for her words and a twinge of sympathy for his hypothetical family kick in.

"I…I didn't mean that." she claimed to him in the hope of redeeming herself and not making herself appear to be a hurtful person, but she looked up to see that his expression remained unchanged, his fading blue eyes not disguising his pain. She wondered if he even was bothered by her statement, or if he heard her at all.

His shaky exhale caused her to stiffen, his breath causing him difficulty once more. She turned to lean on her side, rubbing his shoulder carefully. She can't help but pity this stranger, one she cannot aid in his darkest hour, but based upon his calm behavior, perhaps he was content with his short life. Maybe he believed that it was his time, as young as he was, probably barely beyond his twentieth year. Maybe he knew he was meant to die, not live to see another day, that his death meant something he would never live to see.

Once his breathing was under control again, she returned to leaning her back against the stone wall. She leaned her head against his shoulder, hearing a small hiss as she did so, before she was reminded of one of his hidden injuries, resulting in her sitting upright.

"I'm sorry." she apologized for what could be considered the third time that night. "I'm sorry for hurting you, offending you, and not being able to help you…I wish I could have done more."

She could picture him saying the words, "That's not your fault," or "You did your best," but even if he could say those things did not necessarily mean she would believe him.

His breath continued to grow more and more shallow, and she could see that he could barely keep his eyes open, his pain, his weakness, all taking a toll on him. He remained still, with the exception of him trying to keep his head up. His muscles had relaxed, his hands limply placed on his lap. It wouldn't be long now before the angel of death claimed this forsaken soul.

She slid a hand underneath his chin, granting her access to look the dying man straight in the eye, whispering to him, "Rest, monsieur."

Without protest, he did.


	2. Shelter

_Author's Note_:_ If anything ends up being confusing at one point or another, especially in regards to which character is being referred to, I am apologizing in advance. Names will start appearing in the next chapter.  
_

* * *

She fell asleep shortly after he did, with some regret that the next time her eyes would open, the man would be dead, a cold-as-stone corpse being her first sight of a new day. She had not made sure that when he passed, he passed peacefully, him taking a breath and none after at the same time his pulse ceased. How much worse it would be if he was awake and have the feeling of suffocating and not being able to breathe.

She should have tried harder to stay awake, should have fought sleep as much as she could before she admitted defeat. She should have remained awake until she saw his final breath, so that it was clear to her that his life did not end in a nightmare more terrible that it possibly could have been.

She struggled not to think of the possible family this man had, or could have had. A wife wondering what became of her spouse, with children asking their mother where their father is. What were his parents to think when their son did not respond to their letter, or visit them as planned? Surely at least one of the scenarios held some truth, but which and by how much was unknown.

The thoughts circulated through her mind enough to disturb her dreams.

She saw the man, all cleaned up compared to the harsh state he was in now, sitting in a chair that sat beside a hearth, flipping through the pages of the tome in his lap. The room was almost black, leading to the conclusion of the time of day, the only light coming from the flames of the fireplace. She could see from the dark circles under his weary eyes that he was in need of sleep, possibly because he had spent hours away from home to earn the money his family depended on him for, only to come home and find there was still much to be done.

A sigh of exhaustion came before he admitted any sort of defeat otherwise and placed the book on the floor beside him. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, his legs stretching out a bit as he did so. As obvious as it was that he should retire for the night, he looked out the front window towards the empty streets, only to turn his head sharply at the sound of creaking floorboards from down the hall. Out of the shadows emerged a young girl, no older than four years old, clutching onto a small doll that had seen better days. The tired look in his eyes faded ever-so-slightly at the sight of her, a smile on his face as the girl came towards him and hopped into his lap.

"_Why are you not in bed?_" he asked, a stern edge in his voice. "_Your mother and I put you to bed hours ago_."

"_I can't sleep_, papa," she replied shyly, not meeting her father's eyes and instead twirling the doll's hair with her fingers. She appeared to be afraid about getting into trouble and being scolded for not being in her bed. Her bright blue eyes were slowly allowing the signs of tears to show, her dark brown, almost black, curls partially covering her face as she tightly held on to her doll.

"_Why not?_" There was a hint of concern in his voice, the kind of concern that appeared in almost every parent's voice when trying to solve an issue with their younger children, the type of voice that she rarely heard as a child herself. The young girl's eyes blinked up at him for a moment before she gave him a small shrug in reply.

He curtly nodded, a trace of a smile on his face. His mind could have flashed off to the early days of his youth, where he was the child sitting on his mother's or father's lap, struggling in the same way his daughter was. He could be recalling the days where the two of them had the same problem, perhaps even the night before. He could have been sitting there almost every night looking through one of an infinite number of books, as if it was part of a nightly routine, before the little girl emerged from her room and went straight to her father.

"_Haven't fallen asleep yet, have we?_" came a voice from outside of her view of the scene, sweet and gentle like a mother's voice. Most likely the girl's mother, the man's wife.

"_I'm afraid not_," he answered amusedly, his head gesturing towards his daughter. "_It appears that no one in this house is capable of drifting off tonight_."

"_Don't say that!_" the voice scolded in a whisper. "_Say that and those sons of yours will keep the rest of us up for what is left of the night, and you know very well that is the truth_."

"_Indeed_." he whispered with a yawn as the disembodied voice finally revealed its appearance, a young brunette woman with long, dark brown wavy locks, who went and helped the little girl off the chair.

From her sight, she could not see the woman's face as she leaned down to fuss over the little girl's hair, running her fingers through it, removing a piece of hair that obscured the view of the child's face. The girl appeared to dislike the action, but nonetheless tolerated it with a hint of a smile on her face. There was a trace of laughter from the woman before she placed a light kiss on the child's forehead, and the man stood up from his chair, a fraction of amusement in his tired smile.

The woman whispered something into his ear, and the man nodded in reply before there were murmurs of "Bonne nuit" between the woman and the child, which was followed by the woman disappearing from sight. The girl's father stared into the distance, watching the woman disappear from his sight before picking up his daughter into his arms. The child giggled in delight, slightly surprised by the action.

"_And someone else needs to get to bed, too_." he said to her, trying to hide the fatigue that was in his voice.

The girl shook her head. "_But I'm not tired_, papa_!_"

"_It is way past your bedtime, and we all need our sleep before the sun comes out_." he argued and he carried her to a small room near the end of the hall, placing her onto the bed. "_I probably should have gone to bed myself hours ago._"

"_But I'm not tired!_" she repeated in protest as her father covered her up with the quilt that was folded at the foot of the bed. "_I can't sleep if I'm not tired!_"

"_Yes, you can_." he told her. "_Just close your eyes and try_."

"_I did that already,_ papa, _but it didn't work_." she argued innocently, one arm hugging her doll while the opposite hand held on to the sleeve of his shirt as he tried to stand up from the bed. "_Don't go!_"

He heaved a sigh of defeat as he sat back down on the bed, his patience waning. "_I do not have time for this, and you and I both need our sleep. Now, I'm going to_—"

"_Sing me to sleep? Read to me?_" she asked, her voice growing with excitement. "_Oh, please, _papa_! Just one!_"

"_Alright, then, and afterwards, you will go to sleep so that I may retire for the night?_" The girl nodded eagerly in reply.

She heard the man hum a short tune before she heard the song, a lullaby she had heard her mother sing once in a while to her and her sister while putting them to bed for the night. He kept his voice quiet throughout so as not to disturb the rest of the home's occupants, yet it was audible enough for her and the child to pick up, his gentle and comforting tone almost putting her to sleep within her own dream.

"_Au clair de la lune  
Mon ami Pierrot  
Prête-moi ta plume  
Pour écrire un mot  
Ma chandelle est morte  
Je n'ai plus de feu  
Ouvre-moi ta porte  
Pour l'amour de Dieu_

_Au clair de la lune,_  
_Pierrot répondit :_  
_« Je n'ai pas de plume,_  
_Je suis dans mon lit._  
_Va chez la voisine,_  
_Je crois qu'elle y est,_  
_Car dans sa cuisine_  
_On bat le briquet. »_

_Au clair de la lune,_  
_L'aimable Lubin;_  
_Frappe chez la brune,_  
_Elle répond soudain :_  
_–Qui frappe de la sorte ?_  
_Il dit à son tour :_  
_–Ouvrez votre porte,_  
_Pour le Dieu d'Amour._

_Au clair de la lune,_  
_On n'y voit qu'un peu._  
_On chercha la plume,_  
_On chercha du feu._  
_En cherchant d'la sorte,_  
_Je n'sais c'qu'on trouva_  
_Mais je sais qu'la porte_  
_Sur eux se ferma.__"_

By the time the song had ended, the child laid fast-asleep in her bed, and the man carefully stood up to prevent himself from disturbing his daughter's slumber. She watched him place a light kiss upon the child's forehead, whispering "_Sleep well_, ma petite," before leaving the room, quietly closing the door behind him before heading off to his own bed.

* * *

A child sat atop a bed, gazing out the window, watching the raindrops hit the glass as the storm outside raged on, almost creating rivers out of the Parisian streets.

She should have gone to bed by now, should have been deep in her sleep, but she ignored the barely-enforced order to prepare herself for bed. She instead sat on the edge of her bed, looking out the window as if she was searching for those caught out in such weather, or waiting for someone to return home.

She jumped at the sound of the door opening, the _pitter-patter_ of raindrops a quiet-enough sound that the creaking of the door hinges was enough to surprise her. She did not scream or shriek or panic, like some children of her age would after such an event, only a startled gasp, and that was all before her focus returned to stormy weather outside the window.

A young woman sauntered into the room, her dirty blonde curls reflecting the pale moonlight. She took a seat beside the child, looking outside the window with her for a few moments, perhaps in wonder of what the little girl was searching for beneath the pouring rain in the dark, empty Parisian streets.

The child did not say a word at the presence of the newcomer, only shifted closer to her, snuggling up against her side like a young child would to their parents when faced with fear, whether it would be from a terrible nightmare or a storm much like the one they were sheltered from. The woman held her close for reassurance, for comfort, on the behalf of them both. The child had been staring out the window for hours, she knew, almost the whole day, as if she was waiting for someone. She had only left the room for meals and little else, and it had been done reluctantly on the child's part, for she almost had to be picked up and carried to the table after being called several times. It was only when she was gently reminded of what was to come that ended her fit before she was lead to the table and seated at her chair.

The woman had not seen the child do anything but look out the window all day. When she had walked by the window from time-to-time, she saw the same thing each time: gazing out the window, holding tightly onto her aged doll, occasionally whispering to it, having pretend conversations as a way to cope and pass the time, while the day continued on without her. The woman had suggested that she'd read or come out to the parlor for interaction, but the girl only shook her head and returned to the window.

It was near midnight when the woman had come to the realization that the child had not yet been put to bed, almost forgetting about her staying within her home, and was not at all surprised to find her in the same place she had been all day. She was, however, surprised that the child had not fallen asleep on her own just by looking out the window. The child was relentless, apparently, not allowing sleep to take her until whoever she was waiting for would come home.

When the woman reminded the child of this, she pulled away, still tightly grasping onto her doll. It was going to just as difficult to get the child to bed as it was to get her to eat her supper.

"No!" the child protested, standing up and marching to the window. "I want _papa_!"

"Your _papa_ isn't home, dear, but I'm sure he would want you to sleep." the woman told her gently. "You need it."

"No!" she repeated. "_Papa_ always puts me to bed! He didn't last night, but he does!"

The little girl stood up from the bed in defiance, unwilling to listen to the woman who was only trying to be of assistance, and marched to the window, leaning close against the glass. She seemed calmer near the glass; whether it'd be that she was further away from the threat that was forcing her to sleep or that the rain had a calming effect on her. She appeared to have forgotten the former of the two, the water droplets practically putting her in a trance.

She knew her father was out there somewhere. He had to be.

He told her he'd be back soon, in a few days. He had to be coming back soon, but why wasn't he home yet?

She turned her head at the faint sound of knocking on the front door, and the woman heard it, too, rising from the bed to answer it. She left the room in haste, and the little girl trailed behind her, trying not to trip her as she near-to sprinted towards the front door, struggling to contain her anticipation.

It had to be her _papa_! She just knew it!

Her joy fell when the opened door revealed two men in dark uniforms standing on the front steps, the rain dripping off their hats as the rain continued to pour. The woman told her to get back, and for once, the child did not hesitate to obey and ran straight into her room to hide, peeking out around the corner out of curiosity.

She knew who these men were, members of the police force. Her mother had pointed them out to her once in a while when they went for a walk, or were heading to the market. She never understood their purpose, other than they were meant to protect the honest citizens and they were usually placed in locations under the orders of the king, usually busy places. So why were they on the front steps?

She managed to pick up a few phrases between the officers and the woman, nothing that sounded good. The officers had a grave tone in their voices, and she saw the woman nod along for most of it, then, from what seemed out of nowhere to her, there were tears.

"Are you sure it was him?" the woman sniffed, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "Is there any possibility that it was another unfortunate soul that bares resemblance to him?"

"We are certain, Madame." replied one of the officers. "Sorry for your loss, but there are many others who still have not heard of what has come of their loved ones."

"Good night." said the other, and then the two tipped their hats and took their leave as the woman slowly closed the door.

The little girl stood from just outside her room before she watched the woman stand there, shaking. She saw her sink to the floor, shaking her head, before it was obvious she could no longer hold her tears back, and they fell as hard as the rain coming down outside.

She turned her head when she heard the creaking of the door opening across from her, a young boy peeking out from behind it. His eyes flashed in the direction of the girl, before they drifted towards the woman sitting on the floor.

"What happened?" he whispered to the girl, worry and curiosity in his eyes.

The little girl shrugged. "There were two men here. They spoke with her, and then she started crying. They left."

"Did they hurt her?" he asked, concerned.

"They didn't touch her." she answered honestly after shaking her head. She had no clue why the boy was asking such questions, too young to understand what could be his thought process in regards of the situation.

The woman looked up from the floor, tears streaking her face. She appeared to be quite upset about what she had been told, whatever it may have been. When she took notice of the boy's presence, she beckoned him over with her hand. He didn't hesitate and walked in haste towards her, and the girl followed suit, still unaware of the exact happenings around her.


	3. Obedience

_Author's Note: Before this story gets too far, I just want to make a few notes..._

_1) For the sake of certain details in this story, most of the characters are older than they normally are considered. (Example: Whereas Enjolras is normally considered to be about 22 years old, he is in his mid-to-late twenties in this fic.)_

_2) Things will get confusing at times, or may not make any sense for awhile. There will be "some" plot holes, and that's because when I originally started writing within this universe (I think that's the appropriate word) in a few earlier fics that I lost my muse for and will not likely post. I will try to take care of these as the story goes on._

_Thank you._

* * *

She woke up the following morning, still huddled up against the wall, soaked from the night's rain. Her clothes clung to her skin almost as if they had been glued there, her dark brown hair sticking to her face. Her bare feet were sitting in a small puddle of water, and she was glad enough that it was just that.

Her mind drifted off for a moment to her dreams of the night before, thinking of the possible life the man had had once before he went and fought on one of the ill-fated barricades, barely escaping death there by bullets, cannons, and bayonets. He must have someone looking for him, she firmly believed, whether it'd be his parents, his wife, a friend. Someone must be looking for him…somewhere…

Then again, for all she knew, his parents could be dead or could have disowned him years ago, he might not even be married, and all of his friends could be dead or were scattered to escape the hands of death, if any of them were even close enough to him to be considered that.

She was then reminded that she had fallen asleep beside him.

She expected to reach out in front of her and find a cold, lifeless body, one with pale skin and glazed-over eyes, one with a heart no longer beating or air entering its lungs. She expected that he'd still be sitting there, cold and stiff beside her, his wounds trickling whatever blood he had left, the scarlet liquid staining his once-snow-white shirt before draining onto the cobblestones beside him, dyeing them crimson.

However, when she did reach out in front of her, there was nothing. No corpse. No man in a vermillion-colored coat sitting there cold. No man slowly slipping away into eternal darkness. Only a small pool of blood where he once sat.

Where did he go?

She took a look around the alley, searching to see if he somehow managed to leave and get so far in his deteriorated state, or that someone found him there with her dead and took his corpse into the dark shadows where he would not be found for days, if not weeks or even years.

She felt slightly relieved when she found him leaning against the wall further down the narrow street, grasping the edges of empty barrels to prevent himself from collapsing to the ground in a heap. Despite the sun barely being over the horizon, she could make out the drops of sweat on his brow, his damp curls glistening in the hint of sunlight. She could see him struggling to keep himself up, his arms shaking from the strain, his legs, or rather the uninjured one, seconds from letting him fall.

It was not long after making that observation did his weakness finally take its toll, and with a pain-filled gasp and an anguished yelp, he fell to the ground, his sharp and ragged breathing becoming audible from where she sat.

She did not waste her time in tending to him, making sure he had not caused himself any more damage than he already had. She once again had to wipe the dirt and grime from his face after helping him sit against the wall, hoping the fool would not dare to attempt such a feat again, or at least for a while, after his wounds had healed and the chance of death had been whisked away until his age allowed its welcome.

He still did not speak, as if he had gone mute, was mute, or if the trauma of his ordeal had taken away whatever voice he had. He still looked at her with those steel-blue eyes, observing her every move, possibly criticizing each one within his mind.

There was something different about him, something different than what she had seen in him the night before. Though still quite weak, there was a cold undertone to him. He was not trustful of her, and she didn't blame him for that, but he at least was more relaxed. He was trying to fight her now, it seemed. Maybe not physically, but mentally he was threatening her away from him.

"I suppose you can stand now, hm?" she hummed with a slight edge in her voice. "And here we were last night thinking you wouldn't survive the night. Perhaps you are not as near death as we originally thought."

He scowled at her, a weak glare sent in her direction, which she guessed was his attempt in a silent rebuttal. It surprised her that there was not even a sound from him, with the exception of his difficulty in breathing. He didn't even try to mouth the words.

"It's better for you to be quiet, for you to save the little amount of breath you have left." She hated how harsh the words sounded when they left her lips, and not just because of the tone of her voice. There was the dark and bitter truth to them, the fact that his voice had silenced and that he was losing the fight for his own life. It was only a matter of time before his blood loss wasn't the cause for weakness, but infection from his wounds and the inevitable fever that would surely cut the man's life short.

"Is there any way I could help further?" she asked him, kneeling down beside him. "Find a doctor, perhaps? Or someone who read your final rights?"

She had no knowledge of religion. Honestly, she did, but it was not much. She was aware that some men of a religious faith would much prefer to have some sort of blessing before passing on to what was beyond their life, no matter what it was. Apparently some found comfort in that. Then again, for all she knew, the man could not have such beliefs.

He didn't respond, and instead his head turned its attention towards that ground in front of him. The anger in his face left, and he had a grim expression on his face, like the mention of either subject was a hidden source of pain, as if the thought of them were a cause for buried hurt that he would rather keep buried deep down within him, never to be heard or thought of again, disappearing with him as his lifeless corpse was tossed into a grave. She saw his pale skin turn even lighter, as if it were possible from his skin to be anymore white. She observed the sadness in his eyes, struggling to hide the thoughts that troubled him deep inside, the ones he was shielding her from. He was fighting, perhaps, but not in the way she had assumed moments ago.

"If I leave in search for a doctor, would you trust me to come back?" She let her want to aid him distract her from her observation.

He shook his head in reply.

"Let me rephrase that for you, monsieur." She brushed the dust off her old and worn skirt. "I am going to leave you for a short while, an hour at most. You are going to stay here and rest and preserve whatever energy and breath you have left. Now, do you trust me?"

There was a deep, shaky breath from him, as if taking orders from her was his burden. Perhaps he was one of those men who strongly disliked taking orders from women, their mother being the sole exception of that for most of their childhood. Taking orders from her could show a sign of weakness, inferiority. Men were the superior ones. Women were meant to do their bidding, regardless of if they disliked it. A daughter was seen as a burden to a father, a wife was seen as property of her husband, but this was not the case at hand.

He hesitantly nodded, and she took one last glance at him before taking her flight to the streets.

* * *

"Are you sure you can keep watch on her for just a short while, Gratien?" the woman asked the young boy as she grabbed a few rags from the laundry and placed them in an old bucket. There were still tears in her eyes from hearing the news she had been told during the night, before she had a chance to put the two children to bed. It was obvious she was trying so hard not to let them fall.

"I can, Corinna! She will sleep for _hours_ before you come back!" Gratien replied with energy. "And I'll be quiet. She won't notice you're gone!"

She bent down and cupped the boy's chin with her free hand, the sadness apparent in her eyes as she placed a light kiss upon his forehead. "Alright, then. I will be back as soon as I can."

The boy nodded curtly. She turned her back to leave, glancing around the room one last time before opening the door, when the boy suddenly reached out and grabbed her skirt. There was the look of worry in his eyes, concern spread across his face. She stopped and faced him, expression unchanging as the boy grasped her hand.

"When will _papa_ and Uncle Lucien be home?" he asked innocently, not aware of the events that had occurred a few days before. He was never told of the fighting, of the bloodshed, nor was he close enough to the barricades to hear the gunshots and the cannons. He and the little girl had been sheltered from it, not only because she feared for them if they knew, but because she herself barely believed it. It had not yet sunk in, the harsh truth of what happened.

She broke down and left the home without answering the boy, hiding her tears from him as she went off to scrub her husband's blood off the cobblestones.

* * *

It was perhaps another hour before the house stirred once more, the boy having taken a seat and began reading one of the weathered tomes off the shelf. In truth, he had barely any understanding of what he was reading, most of the vocabulary far-too advanced for a child his age, but it was one of the few things that occupied his mind and kept his thoughts off of his surroundings.

For a child, he was not completely unaware of the recent events. The girl might differ, in some aspect. He knew something happened, something he had not been told. He knew that is was something bad, he could sense it from Corinna, but what it was, he was incapable of supplying an answer. He would ask her, but after what happened the night before, the event might be too fragile to ask about, observing her choked-backed sobs as he only listened to silence around them in the night's shadows.

The little girl tiptoed out of her room, perhaps feeling uncomfortable with the surrounding silence, and eventually made her way over to the spot where the boy was sitting. She leaned her head on the arm of the chair, trying to get a better look at the book Gratien had on his lap.

"What are you reading?" she asked, curiously, pointing to the book.

The boy shrugged. "One of my father's books."

"Can you read it me?"

"I don't think I could, Maximilienne." Gratien replied, trying to sit-up straight in the chair. "I can barely pronounce the words."

"But can you _read_ them?" she quipped, leaning in closer to his face by the end of it, in a manner that could be considered that she was taunting him.

"Some of them." he answered, flipping the page.

"But if you can find a different one, maybe…"

"No, not today." he said firmly, stiffly sliding off the chair and placing the book on the small table beside it. Explaining things to someone younger than him was not an easy task, at least for him. Honestly, instead of having the conversation with her, he would rather be sitting in his room, reading a book to himself and challenging his mind with the new vocabulary he would stumble upon from time-to-time. Yet he was stuck in trying to tell her that he'd rather be alone, and he could not get beyond that.

"Where's Aunt Corinna?" she asked, taking notice that it was just the two of them.

"Running errands." he replied. _That is what I was told._

"What for?"

Gratien shrugged and walked over to the bookshelf, scanning the titles in search of something he could possibly use to entertain the four-year-old. "Some cloth, perhaps. She said something about sewing a few things."

Maximilienne's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"She might be making a new dress for your doll, or she could be making a new blanket for _papa_…I can't say for sure." By the end of the sentence, the little girl had run to her room, and for a moment, Gratien thought she was out of his hair. That was short-lived, as she came from her room a few minutes later, her doll held tightly against her chest.

"Yes, that one—the one your _maman_ gave you." Gratien nodded curtly, returning to his seat, a thinner book in his hand. Maximilienne tried to sit on the edge of the chair beside him, and upon noticing this, he moved over a bit before reluctantly permitting her to sit on his lap.

He took in a breath before he began to flip through the pages. "Now, where to begin?"

* * *

In truth, she did not know this man she had seen her father bring home during the night, covered in the vile filth of the sewers. Beneath the sewer's contents, the only face she recognized was that of her father's, but the other one she had never met before, nor seen. She could not recall him being anywhere in her past, not even a glimpse. Not in the alleyways or the wide open streets.

The first time was only hours ago.

She had obeyed her father's orders to search for medicinal materials while he laid the man on the couch before sending for a doctor, leaving her to watch the unconscious man lying in the spare bed. Even among the filth, she could see the traces of blood trailing out from where the bullets had pierced him, from his stomach and his chest. She could barely hear him breathe, giving her the impression that death had already claimed him for the ranks, but watching his chest rise and fall took such a thought away.

After cleaning off his face, she was more certain that the man before her was a stranger to her. He was more recognizable with the filth now gone from his pale face, young and peaceful, but sickly. She had thought of changing him out of the dirtied clothes he wore in exchange for some of her father's, but she dismissed it just as quickly as she thought of it, suddenly aware of how improper that would seem and how she knew she was incapable of completing such a task on her own.

She did not question as to why her father had brought this man, this stranger, into their home. She did not dare to question the reason, to say the least. She was aware of the uprising that had occurred a few days prior on the Parisian streets, students who rarely held a gun standing atop barricades with their weapons pointed at the National Guard, only to fall by the following morning.

Her beloved had been among those students. She knew he had gone to fight along the sides of friends, his comrades, his brothers, and as far as she knew, had fallen with them. She had known him for a short time, yes, but she knew what they had was true. Yet, just as quickly she had found him, he was gone.

She had been a bit curious in seeing her father clothed in the red-and-blue uniform of the National Guard, for she knew enough to know her father was not among their ranks, and if he was, why would he bother bringing home a wounded man who surely fought against him? What was the reason in bringing home someone young enough to be one of those students who had not yet received their final breath?

_Perhaps to save one prevents a total loss_, she thought, giving the injured man a look of sorrow before sitting down to the old wooden chair at the bedside. He certainly could have fought beside those students on one of the many ill-fated barricades. Maybe he fought alongside the man she loved, maybe he knew what became of him!

Such answers would have to wait.


	4. Recognize

She was certain he'd be gone before she returned to him, whether he had left or the angel of death had finally come to end his suffering. Unfortunate thinking and the worst-case scenario were not the best places for her mind to be as her legs carried her swiftly along the watered cobblestones inside the shaded alleyways, the sunlight barely touching her as she made her way to the crowded slums of Saint-Michel, the general vicinity where she had found the man in the first place.

She had no reason to wonder why the man had dared to lead his comrades to their inevitable doom, for she had been told that many times before, by people in the streets, by his fellow students. "_For a better France_," they said. "Liberté, égalité, fraternité." She had heard his speeches throughout Paris, from the poor-in-shape slums to the busy and carriage-filled streets. The people referred to him as a grand orator, a craftsman of words, yet a contrast from the poets and the fan-makers. She had even heard one of the students refer to him as a young man who had the mind of one would had been through a revolutionary apocalypse. "_A charming man, yet capable of being terrible_," she had been told.

She knew nothing more beyond that.

To say she had never met him before would not be a complete lie. She had heard him speak to an array of crowds with his companions, watched the passion of each word set a flame in his eyes, but never had she met him face-to-face. She had never accidently bumped into him on the street, nor confronted him on his opinions. She had never been so close to him as to even take in a small breath of his scent, not until he had been reduced to the state of his current being.

_He should have known what was to come before he considered making himself and his friends sacrifices to a lost cause_, she thought as she turned into another dark and narrow street. _He should have known the people would not fight, not with what little they already have_. She knew families of the lower class would not dare to fight for something when knowing the odds of returning home, when they could chance the life of their sole breadwinner. They had hope, almost all of them in different respects. They supported their ideals, their cause, but the cost was too high, and unfortunately, he and his comrades were too young and naïve to give that a thought, or they had at one point or another and chose to ignore it.

Because of overlooking that detail, many young men lost their lives, lives that could have lived for years more had a bullet not struck their breast. They had so much to live for, so many opportunities and lives to change had they survived the dark hours. The future they once had forever vanished, leaving nothing more than a corpse and a pool of blood lying on the ground.

_Many children will go fatherless because of him_, she bitterly thought.

Yet she was trying to help him survive the terror and trauma of an event that would forever scar his skin and soul.

_"You could just abandon him, never return."_ a part of her mind told her. _"It's not like he's going to survive this catastrophe anyway."_

_"You might as well commit murder while you're at it!"_ her conscience argued. _"He has a right to live as much as everyone else."_

_"Right to live? Hah! What of the men he lead to their graves?"_

_"A survivor suffers more pain during their lifetime than those whose lights flickered out with a bullet."_

She cursed her conflicting thoughts as she continued her way through the alleys, careful not to bump into anyone in the shadows or stumble upon a turned-up stone. She knew what she was doing was the better thing to do, but that itch, that temptation, of just leaving him, was difficult to resist. Leaving him there would certainly save her the trouble of trying to find someone who would dare to trek the mysterious passageways behind her to a man near death, or a man reluctant to have death grip him with its talons. Not many would dare follow her, knowing the risks involved in following her kind. A trick, some would think, when in reality, it was just the opposite.

By the time she had made it to a common road, the sun was halfway to its zenith, still to the east, and the darkness of the alleyways changed to sun-lit street, filled with Parisians making their rounds. Blending in with the crowd would not be a difficult task for her, as long as she knew when to hide her face. She knew her father and his fellow thieves would be looking for her, unless they were still out picking off unclaimed corpses of dead students and National Guardsmen and making a hefty amount of francs for their findings.

For the morning, she found the slums of Saint-Michel to be rather…empty. Normally it was near to being crowded with struggling common folk and on occasion, a few bourgeoisies, but this time, such was not the case. Instead, she found most people cowering in corners and carts abandoned. She saw mothers clinging tightly onto their children, fathers keeping watch, as she continued on her way.

When she arrived to the vicinity of where she has found the man, she did not waste time in finding a hiding place behind an old stone pillar. She should have taken in account that after the barricade, the police force would be searching around the sites for any survivors who tried to come back, for whatever reason they had. The giant mass of furniture and carts and streetlamps had vanished, not a sign of it left, but in its place, women were on their hands and knees, using scrub-brushes and rags to clean up the blood of those who had perished there a few short days ago.

Even from a distance and from the angle, she could see that a majority of them were mourning, mourning lost sons, brothers, husbands, fathers… It was difficult for her to look at, especially after her young brother, not yet thirteen, perished on the very street she stood on. Odds were that some of the blood that the women were cleaning up belonged to him.

And some thought the lives of the _students_ were cut short.

She felt the tears form in her eyes, but she did not let them fall, despite how easy it would be to let them. She could not let her emotions and grief get the best of her, distract her from her original task. She had little time to mourn for a brother she barely knew.

She tried to leave the scene, duck back into the shadows to continue on with her mission, only to find her feet glued to the cobblestones. She could sense some sort of pull keeping her there, telling her to stay there, not to leave. Stay as close to the scene as she possibly could. Perhaps her brother's death was the cause, but she felt as if something else was there, too.

One of the women looked up suddenly, her gaze sent in her direction, as if she recognized her from some time ago, or even at all. The dark shawl around her shoulders and the tears in her eyes made it evident that she was in mourning, but for who was unknown to the gamine.

The woman stood up slowly, her eyes still focused on the woman behind the pillar, an old and now bloody rag grasped in her hand. The gamine only watched her with caution, for all she knew, this could have been someone she stole from at one point or another.

She expected the woman to cry out, make some sort of sound and point in her direction to give her away, but instead, she remained silent. This continued to last for a few more moments before the woman turned her head to a voice from behind her and returned to the ground, scrubbing the scarlet cobblestones once more.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the woman became distracted, still fearful of the possible outcomes had the woman's focus not been changed. If the woman had alerted the officers behind her with the recognition of a thief, she most certainly would have been caught, her speed not as quick as it once had been, even if she tried to be cloaked by the shadows.

She remained still against the cold stone of the pillar, careful not to make a sound as the women continued on with washing away the blood from the cobblestones. She should leave the scene, go on her way in search of a doctor for a wounded man who was depending on her, but she could not find the strength to pick up her feet.

Her brother had died here, his blood mixed with those of the students and the National Guardsmen. Other than her sister, he was the only "true" family she had left, and by "true," he actually cared about what happened to his sisters. If they were beaten or being threatened by anyone, he wanted to know about it, whether so he could deal with the problem himself or bring them comfort in some way.

Now he was gone.

Her father, _their_ father, probably would not care about the demise of his son if he had heard of it, and if he did, she held the firm belief that it wouldn't last long, only a few minutes, shorter than an hour. Their mother, a day or so, but after that, it would be like he never existed. If their daughters' died, the same would most likely apply.

She had been so deep in thought that she had not seen that the woman who had taken notice of her presence had approached her with caution, and she panicked for a moment when she was lightly tapped on the shoulder. Their eyes met for a short second before the gamine attempted to take flight, only to be stopped by a weak grasp on her wrist.

"What do you want?" the gamine asked defensively, fearful of what the woman had planned. Perhaps slipping something into her pocket before accusing her of stealing the item.

"Hush!" the woman whispered. "I mean no harm. You should know that by now."

"Madame, I have no clue what you speak of." the gamine replied, distrustful of the woman, and did not hesitate to keep her eyes locked on her. "You must be mistaken."

"Mademoiselle Jondrette." the woman stated firmly, a sure fact. "Am I mistaken?"

In most situations, she would craft a lie as a way to break free and dash back into the shadows. However, unlike most situations, she was beginning to see that the woman might not be a threat to her, but that did not stop her from keeping her guard up.

"What does it mean to you?" she countered, her voice containing an edge.

"Nothing yet something at the same time." the woman answered. "Do you not recognize me?"

"Not by face."

The woman appeared to be disappointed at the sound of this. "Are you sure?"

The gamine nodded. "Afraid not. I'm sorry."

* * *

_So her memory has not yet returned…_

"Does the name 'Corinna Delacroix' bring anything to mind? Or does 'Madame Combeferre' sound more familiar to you?" she asked, watching the gamine closely. She had been crying recently, she could tell by the tear stains on her dusty cheeks. Her dark brown hair appeared damp and ragged, meaning she must have spent the previous night in the rain, huddled under a roof in need of repair or maybe did not rest with any form of shelter. She could see the wear and tear of her clothing, dirtied and patched up in various spots wear the clothing had worn down and holes had formed. There was a small bump on her stomach, something she had not seen the last time she saw her, almost two months ago. She observed the dark shade of red that appeared on some spots of her clothing, which could mean so many things.

The gamine was hesitant to answer, as if she had recognized them in some way or another, but could not place them. She looked down at her free hand and fixed her skirt before she shook her head. "Perhaps in a distant memory, but nothing I can place well."

"What of Gratien, Maximilienne, Michel, Gabriel? Any of those? Rainier? _Lucien_?" This came out like a plea, more desperate than it was meant, but then again, anything to establish some sort of familiarity was necessary.

The gamine shrugged. "Such names could belong to anyone."

"But do they belong to _any_one you are familiar with?" Corrina asked, loosening her grip on the gamine's wrist, a part of her trusting that she would not try to run away on her. The response was a shake of her head.

"Are you finished with me, then?" the gamine inquired after a pause, looking around the street nervously, as if she expected an ambush, her eyes drifting back towards the direction she came from.

"Yes." she replied, a little hesitant with her answer. She observed of how the gamine was shaking, but not from the cold or panic, and how her eyes would frequently flash toward a dark and narrow alley a little ways down the street. "Are you alright, mademoiselle?"

"I'm…fine." the gamine answered with a slight nod. "It's just…Nevermind. I shouldn't bother you with it."

She started to walk away, but Corinna stopped her by catching her wrist. The gamine did not fight, but turned her head to look at the woman, a trace of confusion in her eyes.

"What shouldn't you bother me with?" There was concern in her voice.

"It's nothing." the gamine replied, her gaze directed to the cobblestone ground, avoiding Corinna's eyes. "You could not be of help, anyway."

"Who's to say that?"

"Me." she answered coldly. "I'm sorry for being a bother, but I really must go. If I don't find a doctor soon…"

After a short while of silence, and some thought, Corinna asked, "If you don't find a doctor soon, then…?"

The gamine shook her head. "It's none of your concern."

"I can help, if it's a doctor you need, but might I ask what for?" Corinna feared of the intentions the gamine had, between the slight bump of her stomach and the blood that was already on her clothes.

"Would you believe a word I told you, and then follow me?"

"More likely than not."

The gamine looked around for a moment, then told her what, or rather who, she had come upon.

"He's in bad shape. I didn't think he'd last the night, but he's somehow still alive. Don't think he'll last much longer, though." the gamine finished, with concern and a hint of worry in her tone. Corinna nodded along, and in haste, followed the gamine into the alleys.


	5. Burdens Bared

_Author's Note: There is a very long flashback in this one, and a flashback within the flashback. I tried to make it as clear as I could in regards to the order of events. Hopefully it was a success._

_Also, in regards to warnings, this chapter does contain abuse and mentions of suicide._

* * *

_In and out…in and out…in and out…_he repeated to himself over and over during the gamine's absence, a feeble attempt to ignore his pain, concentrating on something else, which was not working well for him. The burning in his thigh and the searing pain in his chest and shoulder were too much for him to be taken away by some mere distraction. He just wanted them to disappear, or to have someone come close enough to put him out of his misery.

_Not even the One above is merciful enough to end this_, he thought harshly as he looked up to the clear, pale blue/gray sky above his head, trying his hardest not to hiss in pain as the movement increased the agony felt from his chest and his shoulder. How dumb of him to even so much as _attempt_ to get away and find some sort of help for himself!

_The girl will be back soon_. he reminded himself as he tried to relax and ignore the pain he was feeling what might as well be everywhere. It hurt to make even the slightest movement. Flexing his uninjured hand, turning his head, his eyes looking left and right. To move felt like a burden.

To trust her was a possible mistake. For all he knew, the gamine would never return, and with her gone, so would be his chances of surviving the ordeal, surviving the pain, the wounds, the bullets that still remained within him. She could have only told him the she was heading off in search of a doctor to get rid of him, as if she had needed some excuse to leave. Perhaps being around him was suffocating her, being in one space for a long period of time. Fetching a doctor was her only way out without making him think he was going to be forgotten there.

His pain flared up once again as he looked towards a rustling sound across the alley. He clenched his teeth as he tried to prevent himself from screaming due to the agony he felt.

How did he end up in such condition, beaten, shot? He didn't recall a gunshot at the pull of a trigger. He was unaware of a confrontation. He did not remember being threatened, or threatening anyone in a manner that would result in retaliation. He had no recollection of how he received the bullets within him, the scratches and gashes that marked his skin, the dried blood that was matted into his hair or stuck underneath his fingernails.

That last thing he could recall before waking up in this state was a day he would rather not think of. It was a day that had started positively, only to turn into mourning a few short minutes later. It was a day that hurt him emotionally just as much as he was currently hurting physically.

* * *

_He had practically sprinted down the stairs that morning, a smile on his face, his head held high. He held on tightly to his brick red coat with each step, fixing his cravat at the same time. For the most part, he was well-groomed, his messy curls difficult to tame._

_ He was on his way to visit his sister and nephew that morning, as he was visiting his parents in Toulouse for a while before returning to Paris for his studies. His parents had stressed to him that they would rather have his time spent with them, for they had not seen their only son for a long period of time and were interested in what he had been doing since the last time they met. More so, they were interested in him finding a wife, both of them having a firm belief that he should have married by then, with the expectancy of an heir, but he would have none of it._

_ "_Even if I shall live my whole life in solitude, you already have an heir through your daughter. Look to _her_ instead of expecting _me_ to fulfill what is considered a traditional ideal_."_

_ That ended that for the time being._

_ It had been months since he had last seen his sister. He came home mid-winter due to the gap between semesters, his friends all home to visit their families, or what remained of them. Months had come and gone, summer arriving seemingly all-to-quickly. He had been hesitant in returning home during the warm months, but after reading his sister's pleas within her letters to him, he was convinced, perhaps too easily._

_ In other words, it was his _sister_ who wanted him to come home._

_ The pair of them had always been close, as some siblings are. They rarely fought, and when they did, it was normally out of fun, such as ruining the other's new clothes with mud after the melting of the snow and the pouring of the rain. She was older than him by two years, occasionally resulting in them being separated inside and outside their home. She was as protective of him as he was of her. If she was being teased about the book she held in her hands and he heard about it, he did not think twice about confronting those who dared to say such. If he was being picked on for his compositions that other students got ahold of, she did not hesitate to give them a piece of her mind._

_ As they got older, the bond didn't break, but it was strained. Her behavior and manners were crucially criticized by their parents before she was ten, and around the same time, so was his conduct. Their mother and a few helpers of the household separated him from her to teach her what was and was not ladylike, how she should behave when in the presence of a gentleman. His father would tell him how he should treat women, with respect, and how to be a gentleman. They rarely saw each other during those years, and when they did, it was for a meal or because there were guests. There was not much beyond that._

_ He had always respected his parents, followed orders and did so with little to no complaints, but that changed during their teenage years._

_ He had been reading through of book of Rousseau while wandering their home's many halls, paying little attention to his surroundings as he did so, when suddenly, he heard yelling and shouting and sobbing. He almost brushed it off, for such things happened on occasion between a few maids or between the kitchen-help. It was a scream, a crash, and a thud that made him investigate in a rush towards the noise, dropping his book as he did so._

_ When he reached the room, he found his father standing over his sister, red in the face, his mother watching with horror. His sister laid crumpled on the floor at their father's feet, a hand held up to her cheek as if someone had slapped her there, while another grasped her shoulder as if she had been tightly held onto, and one of the many "precious" vases laid shattered just behind her._

_ It was no mystery who he ran to first, not paying any attention to the other people in the room. He did not see his father's hand coming to strike another blow to her, and it was his sister's screech that warned him a moment too late. The blow sent him crashing to the floor, tripping over his sister before his body came into contact with the floor, narrowly missing a ceramic shard to his chest._

_ He was dazed for a few moments, his mind playing catch-up as he sat up, a hand covering his left eye. There would be a bruise there later._

_ His father apparently had not noticed him after the fact, appearing almost as stunned as he felt, as did his mother, but both kept quiet about it and left the room, without a single word to each other nor to either of their children._

_ His sister rushed to him the moment they were out of sight, but he was the one who spoke first._

_ "Are you alright?" he asked her with concern in his voice, searching her for any other wounds she could have been dealt during his absence._

_ "I…I'm fine." she replied, her voice shaking as she carefully helped him of the floor. "And you?"_

_ "I will be."_

_ She laughed at that._

_ However, that one was not the last time he would be the witness or on the receiving end of such an act. More than once had he saw his sister struck by their father's hands. Almost always, there was no explanation for it, no visible cause. _

_ One occurrence resulted in his sister suffering a bruised rib, and the following week, he had caught his father shoving his sister against the wall, leaving her with no way of escape as the blows were delivered. He did not hesitate for one second and came between them, him taking a few blows himself as he shielded his sister. She managed to get away with her brother's help. When their father had tried to lash out at her again, he fought back, shoving his father the opposite direction, causing him to stumble into a plant. He didn't pay attention to his bloody nose or what would become a black eye as he followed his sister to her quarters, making sure their father didn't follow them._

_ His sister was the one who tended to his bloody nose, found a cold and raw piece of meat to place over his eye, as much as he protested it. She was the one who cleaned the remnants of blood on his face, checking his vision to be assured of no invisible damage, asking him questions related to memories, and he answered with little to no hesitation._

_ "You shouldn't have done that." she told him gently as she checked his dark eye. "I would have been fine."_

_ "I was not going to stand there and let him treat you like that." he replied sincerely, hissing a bit when her small fingers barely touched the bruised area. "Who knows how far he could have gone had I not intervened."_

_ "He's our _father_, Lucien. Regardless of reason—" _

_ "Frankly, I don't care if he was Louis XVIII," he snapped, cringing at his sister's touch. "I still would not have allowed that to continue. You do not deserve to be treated in such a way."_

_ "Whether or not I deserve it is not for you to judge. As a woman and his daughter, I have no choice but to tolerate it. In better days, perhaps I will not have to be subjected to such treatment, but as for now, there are no other options for me."_

_ "And what of the man you marry? Will you permit him to treat you like that, and then go on to yourself without thinking of it twice?"_

_ "Oh, sweet brother, tell me of what options I have!" she answered with sarcasm, standing up from the bed. "For women, such as myself, are considered weak and inferior…property, if you will. Father could tell me tomorrow of who I am to marry, and I won't be given a say! You know that as well as I."_

_ "You are no lower than I." he responded with a quiet but audible voice. "And simply because you are of the fairer sex does not justify father's treatment of you. What have you done, other than exist?"_

_ "Being born a woman has its punishments."_

_ "Punishments that should not be." he grumbled as she returned to sitting on the bed, her hands folded in her lap._

_ "At least you do not have to be worried about that." She patted his shoulder lightly. "You are a lucky one."_

_ "What is luck to me when I have to witness what you have to go through?"_

_ "You don't have to be one the receiving end of it." she said in a comforting tone, not that he took it that way. "You choose to become involved. You choose to defend me, and Lucien, I do not need you to fight my battles."_

_ "How are you fighting your battles? You do not even attempt to fight back!" he scoffed, looking at her incredulously. "You let him treat you as if you have no worth, as if you might as well be a pest."_

_ "But I am a pest, Lucien, I am a burden." _

_ "You are no pest, no burden. You have value, you have worth." he told her, trying not to shout at her as if she were a child who was putting herself down. "Do not let the words he speaks change that about you."_

_ "Words don't change what I already am," she stated, placing a hand on his shoulder, half out of the need for comfort, "for what has been said is not wrong."_

_ "Nor are they true."_

_ She heaved a defeated sigh and shook her head, as if she had run out of arguments. Her eyes glanced at him before turning to the floor. "You do not know anything, do you?"_

_ His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Pardon?"_

_ "What you say does not change a thing, what you do has no effect!" she snapped, tapping her foot on the ground. "You could argue with father from dawn to dusk or until your have no breath left and neither will change a single thing. I have to face what I have to face, Lucien. Can you accept that?"_

_ "I cannot, for you have not done anything wrong, and if you have done nothing wrong, then there is no reason for you to be treated in that way."_

_ "Let it be!" she hissed, moving farther away from him, closer to the foot of the bed. "It does not concern you."_

_ "In what mind?" _

_ "You have no authority over me, not like father, so do not even consider any further intervention." she said as a warning. "You never know when you will become the target, if you ever will. It's not likely, though. He has his reasons not to cause harm to you intentionally."_

_ "And what are those, my dear sister?" he asked with a trace of sarcasm, a piercing glare in his eyes. "That he needs to make sure I live long enough to produce an heir, is that what you mean? I assure you, there are many other reasons father has not caused me harm yet."_

_ "And those are…?"_

_ He stared at her blankly for a moment, frozen within his thoughts. He had no problem in coming up with an argument, but he just stopped. She sat patiently for his retort, but it never came. Instead, he stood up from the bed and left, without another word, and only looked back at her when he closed the door behind him. _

_ That was the worst fight the two of them ever had. _

_ The beatings continued, and every time he heard it, he disobeyed his sister's words and intervened, and after a while, they stopped altogether. Perhaps it had finally sunk in to his father that his son would not stand for the abuse of his sister, or maybe it was because the last time nearly resulted in him and his son tumbling off the third-story veranda._

_ He was on the second-to-last step when he realized a person was standing at the bottom of the stairs, almost causing a collision, and probably would have caused one had his mind not stopped its wandering._

_ "Pardon me, Combeferre." he apologized, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt before stepping aside to allow his friend by, but the man remained still in front of him, a grave expression on his face. Combeferre looked at him, and he could tell almost immediately that something was up. There was a depressed air about him, and its reasoning was unknown. He could see the sadness in his eyes, a reflection of his inner mourning, mourning that he had yet to experience._

_ "Are you alright?" he asked Combeferre with concern in his voice, placing a hand upon his shoulder, a gesture meant for comfort, but that did not see to help his case. _

_ The man could not meet his eyes, avoiding the piercing steel-blue gaze. Instead, his stare met the floor, as if its simple pattern had caught his interest. He was trying to hold something back, trying not to say what he had on his tongue, whether it was because it was something he did not want to say or because he feared the result of his words, perhaps a mixture of both. He was fearful of him, from his perspective, but the sadness intertwined with it only caused within him confusion and concern. He took a deep, shaky breath before saying a word._

_ "Enjolras," he began, brushing his hair back with his fingers out of nervousness. "You may want to sit down."_

_ "Whatever for?" he inquired._

_ "I would rather not have you argue with me." Combeferre responded tiredly, trying to mask the shaking of his voice. "Please, Enjolras...just sit."_

_ "I do not have time for this." Enjolras said with clenched teeth, internally battling his frustration, not wanting to be in a terrible mood in front of his sister. He moved to the side to walk around him, but Combeferre stopped him._

_ "I need you to stop and listen to me, Enjolras." Combeferre asked of him steadily, ready to grab the man's arm if he tried to avoid finishing the conversation, trying to put emphasis on the necessity of it._

_ "I am late enough as it is, Combeferre." he growled, his teeth clenched and his eyes cold. "Annette and Gratien are probably wondering where I am and I—"_

_ "Annette's dead, Enjolras."_

_ "You're bluffing."_

_ Combeferre shook his head slowly and heaved a sigh, trying hard not to let the tears fall. "I only wish I was."_

_ Enjolras still wasn't convinced and snorted. "Now that you've said that, anything else you'd like to say?"_

_ "She drowned, Enjolras." he said sorrowfully and looked down at the ground, not being able to meet his friend's eyes. "The gardener found her in the pond this morning. She…they don't think it was an accident, as in...she intended for it to happen."_

_ Enjolras stared at him for a moment, feeling completely lost and torn, realizing the truth he tried not to comprehend for a few seconds. He had seen her just the day before, holding her two-year-old son in her lap, watching her son lovingly as her son was captivated by her brother, who was playing a short and sweet song on the violin. She looked so happy, no sign of depression at all. She watched her son with caution as he waddled to her brother, who was nearby enough to catch him if he fell, a shining smile on her face._

_ How could she be gone?_

_ The next thing he remembered was his world going black._

* * *

The memories stabbed him like a knife, a pain that hurt just as much as the bullets that had struck him. It felt so long ago, yet it felt so recent. He could not remember a thing after that, the darkness leaving a gap from then to where he sat now, on the wet cobblestones of what he could guess were Parisian streets, seeing a few dark crimson spots atop the stones which he could only assume came from him when he tried to escape the alley in the midst of panic and waking up in an unfamiliar place.

Time had certainly passed since then, since his sister's death.

But the question was, how much?


	6. Caution

Corinna realized almost as soon as she started following the gamine that she had neglected to inform the gamine that she did not have extensive knowledge of the medical field. She knew most of it, her husband being a doctor at the Necker, and she occasionally assisted in a few of the procedures he performed, but not much more. She knew how to stitch up patients following surgeries or fix a joint that was out of place, what medications were appropriate for what, and so on. Basic things.

She was nervous about traveling through the alleys, the mysteries of the shadows always watching her. Who knew what could be hidden within them? She never wandered into the dark passageways, and hoped she would never have to again.

After a while, the gamine stopped suddenly, looking left and right, up and down, without any warning.

"Something wrong, Éponine?" Corrina asked, the name slipping from her mouth because fear had taken hold of remembering the gamine had no knowledge or her, not since the accident. She turned sharply on her, her eyes wide.

"How do you know who I am?"

Corrina bit her lip in thought before answering. "I knew you in the past."

The gamine had a look of distrust on her face, an accusation of a lie. "I don't remember you."

"It's a long story, dear, that I believe we have little time for." She chose her words carefully before continuing. "If what you had said of this man is true, every second we waste here is another second off his chance of survival."

The gamine nodded, as if for a few short moments, the original task had been forgotten and Corrina's words served as a reminder. "Yes, of course! Not much further, I promise you!"

Sure enough, Éponine's words held true, for not even five minutes later, Corinna caught a glimpse of a man sitting down along the side of a building, barely conscious. From a distance, she had seen his vermillion coat and the crimson stains on his once-white shirt. His light brown curls were in disarray, yet a small tuft of it managed to reflect off the little amount of sunlight there was, making it appear almost blond. She was looking at a familiar face, that she knew, and relief and worry suddenly mixed in her mind.

To think he survived beyond what he had been through was a miracle in itself. Question was, how much time did he have left? Could he even be saved or was he too far gone?

"Will he be alright?" Éponine asked while Corinna knelt down in front of him.

The woman glanced up at her before turning her attention back to him. "I cannot say anything with certainty. If I can get him back home, I can get a better look. It's too dark here, and my supplies are at home as well."

"I cannot carry him, madame, not alone."

"You should not be lifting him, by any means, not in your condition." Corinna pointed out, gesturing to the gamine's stomach. Éponine appeared offended and shocked by the observation, and looked as if she bit back a sharp retort. "I have eyes, mademoiselle, so do not consider denying it."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" the gamine inquired after heaving a defeated sigh. "If you won't let me carry him and he's too weak to move on his own, I don't know of what else to do."

The man coughed weakly from the ground. "I can walk on my own."

"Yes, because that _certainly_ worked out in your favor before." Éponine responded sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "The only thing you succeeded in that feat was causing further harm to yourself."

The man said something inaudible under his breath, and the gamine ignored it, perhaps annoyed enough with the man already.

_If she only knew._

* * *

It had not been difficult to find a few people in the street for assistance, as within the next hour or so, Maximilienne's bed was occupied by the wounded man, and the two children grew restless at the sight of the man being brought into the home, trying to get a closer look, to see his face, but Corinna instead shielded their faces while directing them to the location that would serve as a temporary infirmary.

If they had seen his face, she feared that fear would be put into their hearts, possibly to haunt them for as long as they lived, especially if the man did not survive.

Éponine had followed closely behind, and Corinna took care that neither Gratien nor Maximilienne saw her face. She knew that if either of them had caught the slightest glimpse and recognized her, that the gamine would run off, and after not seeing her for almost two months, losing her again was not an option.

Corinna told the children to stay put and to not go into the room under any circumstances, and when the young girl asked of her precious doll, the woman had hurriedly walked into the room and returned to Maximilienne with the doll in hand.

"I'll be out to cook supper for you two in about an hour or so, alright?" she asked the children, and both nodded. However, just as she turned to enter the room, she felt a slight tug at her skirt, to find Maximilienne tightly hugging her doll.

"Who was that?" the girl asked curiously.

Corinna glanced at the door. "Someone who needs my help, dear."

"Not him, Aunt Corinna, _her_." Maximilienne clarified shyly, holding on to her doll more tightly. "The woman that came in behind the strangers and didn't leave. She looked like _maman_!"

"Hush, child!" Corinna scolded quietly. "There is no reason to speak of her at this present time. Go ask Gratien to read to you, or practice writing on parchment."

"But we've done that already!" the girl whined. "And Gratien's not fun! He just sits and reads!"

_Much like his father_. "He likes to do that sort of thing, dear, for the same reason you play with your doll." She was not getting far.

"And I can't read!" Maximilienne interjected, gripping onto Corinna's skirt. "I don't know how."

"In time, Maximilienne, you will learn, but now, I need you to find something to do while I go help the man in the other room, alright?" she asked gently, kneeling down to the girl's height. "Could you do that for me?"

The little girl nodded and scampered off towards Gratien, who was occupied with yet another book from his father's collection. Corinna turned after making sure no visible trouble rose between the two children and entered the room, closing the door behind her. Éponine was patiently sitting in a chair beside the bed, staring into space, trying to avoid the attention of the man barely conscious a few feet away from her. The man, who had been carefully stripped of his vermillion coat, laid rather peacefully on the bed, as if he were asleep, something one would think had they not seen the slight reflection of light in his less-than-halfway-open eyes.

"He won't rest, madame." Éponine said quietly with worry. "He seems intent on staying awake as much as he can."

_Perhaps he's afraid that once he closes his eyes that they won't open again_. "At least he's relaxing, but in the long run, that won't do, especially when there's the matter of the bullet wounds. They've been in there long enough, and I would hate to see what would result if we let them sit there any longer."

"What do you propose?" the gamine inquired, slowly rising from her seat. "I have little knowledge, if any at all, to be of any help in this situation."

Corinna paused for a moment, lightly tapping her foot as one deep in thought. "My husband used to keep a surgical kit underneath our bed, along with the rest of his supplies. If they remain there still, perhaps they could be of use to us."

"To you, you mean."

"Can you sew?"

"Yes, but—"

"Pardon me for a moment, dear," Corinna turned and began to exit the room. "I'll be back in a moment. If either of the children knock, make sure the door remains closed. I don't want them suffering from terrors in the night—It's difficult enough to put them to bed without them."

Éponine nodded, and Corinna kept her word, only disappearing for about a minute or two before returning with a valise that from the floor came up to her knees. The valise was black and covered in dust, giving it the appearance that it hadn't been touched in ages.

"Just where I thought it would be, and a good thing, too. Saves time." She began to search through the valise.

"Shouldn't we give something to the monsieur before we do anything?" Éponine asked, warily glancing at the man in the bed. "He's in enough pain as it is. Shouldn't we give him some brandy or perhaps laudanum? If it's solely you and I, would it not be best to at least try to lessen his pain to some extent? If he thrashes about too much, it could do more harm than good, to himself and us. That, and any of his screams could terrify the children."

"Agreed." Corinna nodded. "I should not be putting you at such a risk, especially when you're with child. I would never forgive myself for causing you or the child harm."

"But in this case, have you the choice?"

"You'll stand by, nothing more." she stated firmly. "Far enough away where if something happens, you will not get hurt."

"But what if he can't sit still? Surely bullet wounds are not the least of the painful? Especially in removal."

"I'll take my chances, dear," Corinna replied. _He won't likely put up a fight in such a state_. "However, you will not."

She could tell by the look in her eyes that the gamine was frustrated by her orders, and was perhaps fighting a sharp-witted retort, but all the gamine did was huff, admitting defeat as Corinna managed to take out a few things from the valise. The gamine approached the head of the bed, gazing down upon the wounded man before her. From Corinna's perspective, she appeared to be in awe, but the woman knew Éponine too well for that to be a possibility. When the gamine's hand gently brushed a few stray strands of hair from his face, her expression seemed close to being in remorse, or that she pitied him. Perhaps she was grieving for him, for those who lost their lives before the dawn of the previous day, maybe for her brother if she remembered him.

"Madame Combeferre?" she asked so quietly it was almost inaudible.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Jondrette?" Corinna turned around to face her.

"Will he make it?"

The woman looked towards the unconscious man in the bed, a grim expression on her face. She had known this man for only a few years, but seeing him like this stung. Never had she seen him so weak, his skin so pale, so ill in appearance. She could not help but let the single tear fall down her cheek.

She struggled not to be infuriated with him. He went to fight at the barricades, helped them rise, lead his group to the last ticking second. He had lead the charge, his comrades dutifully following his commands, keeping in mind that by ignoring him they risked death if one missed the order too late. He had been with them every step of the way, the rise and the fall. He had watched his friends and comrades die before his very eyes, perhaps even tried to save them, but in the end, could not. He was one of the reasons many lives were cut short, eyes that would never open again. Most of all, she blamed him for her husband's death.

Yet here she was trying to keeping him alive.

"We can only hope."

* * *

She had sat by the couch for at least an hour before her father returned with a doctor right behind him, both soaked from the rain but did not seem to care in any matter. Without a single word, she stood up and made her exit from the front room, heading towards the kitchen in haste.

Her father had noticed her hasty exit and followed her. By the time he reached her, the girl was already in tears. When she caught sight of him, she turned away and began to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief, and was slightly startled when she felt her father's hand on her shoulder.

"Is everything alright, Cosette?" he asked quietly, unsure of what had upset her.

Cosette was not sure of how to answer. She had not told her father of the man she had met just a few short days before, unaware of how he would react, especially to the fact that she loved him. She had hardly spoken but a few words to the man! It would be foolishness for her to tell her father that she fell in love with a man she barely knew. Even more, the man had gone to fight on the barricades. For all she knew, he may no longer be alive, something she would rather have not be.

"Only thinking of mother." she lied, having but a few memories of her late mother, who had died when she was still a young child. The last memory she could recall of her mother was when she dropped her off at the inn owned by the thieves known as the Thenardiers, who she had not seen since her father had rescued her from them about ten years before. For that, she was grateful.

It was about another hour or two, perhaps even a little longer, before the doctor reported anything to her father.

"He should make it." the man said with a grave tone. "As long as he rests and does not develop an infection, I do not see why he would not survive this. He does, however, have a long road to recovery, though. He was lucky that he was not hit anywhere vital."

After a few more exchanges, the doctor left, leaving Cosette and her father with the hopefully-recovering man on the couch.

Her father kept watch on the man while she slept, and in turn, she watched him while she rested, both agreeing it would be best that someone kept an eye on the man while he remained unconscious. During her waking hours, she did a few small tasks that she could do so she could always come to him if the need arose, such as a little dusting here and there, sweeping up the dirt from floor. She even managed to sit down and read through a few books she had as of late neglected to read. She had caught him in a fit only once, but he calmed down without her assistance.

She had been busy preparing tea that midafternoon when the man woke, her father still sleeping after keeping watch the night before. When she first heard the groans, she had dismissed it as her father having a rare nightmare, but at the sound of a shriek had she realized that the noises were not from her father at all; she nearly dropped the teapot at the sound of it, and was surprised that her father had not come out to investigate.

Cosette was ready to look in and see the man sprinting about the room in the panic, or even less, frantic pacing, simply based upon the high-pitched noise, but instead found him sitting up straight on the couch, a hand placed over the right side of his stomach where a bullet had gone through, his face contorted in pain. She did not rush in but kept a hurried pace as she entered the room, bearing in mind that the man was probably more terrified than she was, waking up in an unfamiliar place in such as state.

"Are you alright, monsieur?" she asked, keeping her distance. For all she knew, the man could have a dark past.

"By the average person's definition of 'alright,' no, I don't believe so." he replied hoarsely, emitting a small yelp when he tried to make himself more comfortable.

"Careful!" Cosette warned, reaching her hands forward as if that would prevent anything from happening. "You are not exactly in the best condition to be moving about so much."

"I would agree." She watched the man turn his head a bit, trying to take in his surroundings. It was a strange place to him, she knew, and perhaps the sooner he got used to it, the better.

She warily sat down in the chair that was placed across from the couch, observing the man closely, not ready to give him her trust just yet. He was not in his strongest state, by far, but nonetheless, she was not taking the chance of being caught off guard.

"Do you feel any pain, monsieur?" she asked calmly, sitting up straight.

He nodded in reply. "But nothing you need fret over, I assure you."

"Oh?" Cosette quietly questioned. "Are you confident with that answer?"

"Compared to the pain others could be experiencing as we speak, I am sure my pain is nothing to fret over." he answered sincerely, before hissing in pain from trying to sit up.

"I would not recommend in trying that." she advised gently, hoping she would not have to repeat herself. "Regardless of whether or not you think your pain is enough to fret over."

The young man scowled at that, sitting in the silence for a moment before daring to say anything further. "Could you at least tell me where I am, then, mademoiselle?"

"Out of harm's way." she replied matter-of-factly, fixing her dress. "I can at least tell you that."

"Still in Paris, then?"

Cosette nodded, then abruptly stood up when she remembered of what she was doing before the man's terrified shrieks. "Pardon me for a moment, monsieur."

As she turned around, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the man open his mouth in an attempt to say something, perhaps to correct her in some way, but moved too quickly out of the room to allow him the chance.


	7. If Only

"That should be it." Corinna stated, taking a step back to see if she had done everything correctly, from what she had learned from assisting her husband. She had been careful with every detail, doing the best she could as quickly as possible, trying to prevent as much pain as she could, even as the man occasionally writhed in pain when not even the laudanum could ease his pain.

Éponine had kept calm throughout the whole procedure, handling supplies and stepping away whenever the man could no longer take the pain he was in. She had a straight face the entire time, as if what she was witnessing did not have any effect on her. She was, however, quiet, only saying a word in the midst of confusion or when clarification was needed. Otherwise, Corinna felt almost as if she had been the only one there.

The gamine had returned to the chair, wiping her slightly-bloody hands on her already-dirtied skirt. She apparently was not bothered by the crimson liquid on her fingers, nor did it bother her that she was practically covered in it, between the procedure and what she had already obtained from the previous night.

"I have other clothes you may borrow." Corinna said kindly as she carefully adjusted the bedsheets. "At least something to get you out of wearing an outfit that is covered in blood."

Éponine shook her head. "I couldn't accept it. As much as I would appreciate something that isn't rags, there is no way I could repay your generosity, if I could ever repay it at all."

"Such will not be necessary, dear." she replied, stepping away from the bed. "I could spare a few things without repayment."

"_Madame_—" Éponine tried to protest.

"I will not hear it!" Corinna half-scolded. "You are a guest in my home. It is one of the least things I could do."

The gamine appeared to be in deep thought for a moment. "This is not a place for me to be. I should have left hours ago and yet I stayed."

"I permitted it, and had I not wanted your presence here I would have sent you away like a famished dog." she assured her as she started picking up the instruments she had used. "You are welcome in my home for as long as necessary."

"I am only a stranger to you." Éponine argued. "How do you know I will not steal from you, harm the children, kill you in your sleep? Do you not believe I am capable of taking such action?"

"It is not that I do not believe you are capable, for I know you are, but it is the truth that I know you will not even attempt any of those things, or any other crime. You have a conscience, mademoiselle, whether you believe so or not. Whatever crimes you committed was for survival, due to the poverty that our society has diminished you to." Corinna explained earnestly. "Theft is probably the worst you have done, but you would not likely harm a child or another, at least not with intent."

"You sound sure of this, as if you have known me my whole life, as if we were children together."

"I have my ways, dear." _If you could only remember…_

"Surely it's all true, and no good."

"Whatever would make you think that?"

The gamine heaved a sigh, as if it was a tiring story to tell. "The Jondrettes, the Patron-Minette? I am sure you are aware of them?"

"Of course I am, but my knowledge of you is not the same as you would expect." Corinna replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed to face her, careful not to disturb the man behind her. "I know you from a different time, a time you cannot remember for a reason you and I both know."

"Pardon?"

"You have been told you are missing parts of your memory, correct?" she asked with uncertainty. "Or have I been informed incorrectly?"

Éponine looked confused for a moment, before coming to a realization and nodded. "Yes, of course. Five years, or about that."

"That is where my knowledge is from, dear. That is how I know you, why I trust you, because of that time you have lost within your head. Nothing else." Corinna told her calmly, fixing her skirt. "You may not remember me, but I remember you. If you choose not to believe me, so be it."

The gamine appeared hesitant to give her any sort of reply, her eyes shifting from the walls, to the ceiling, to the floor, trying to avoid her gaze. Perhaps she felt guilty for her treatment of her, or maybe was ashamed that she could not remember someone she had once been so close to.

"Your loss of memory is not your fault, before you attempt to blame yourself." Corinna said gently. "It was not as if you planned on not remembering five years of your life, but if luck has it, hopefully it will return to you soon."

"I hope so." Éponine replied, her eyes directed to the floor. "A piece of me feels…missing…without them. There's so much that I don't know because I don't have them."

_More than you think…_Corinna thought to herself, looking towards the man on the bed. _So much more…_

* * *

"I see you two are getting along."

Cosette rolled her eyes at her father shortly after he woke up later that afternoon, walking into the room to see her and the man conversing. She had not heard much from the man, for he fell asleep before she returned with the tea, and had only woken up a few minutes ago, seemingly calm in contrast to how he had woken up earlier. So far, all she had learned from him was how he obtained his injuries, from the fallen barricades, and nothing more. Not even a name.

"Everything is fine, papa." she answered sweetly, rising from her seat on the chair. "He hasn't been awake long, but he does need his rest."

"We all do, Cosette." he replied, placing a hand upon her shoulder, and the man on the couch turned his head towards them suddenly, as if her name caught his interest.

"Pardon me, but did I hear right?" the man asked, eyebrows furrowed, and gestured towards her. "Is your name 'Cosette'?"

She looked to her father, hesitant to answer, and then nodded. "Yes, I am, to most people. My real name is Euphrasie."

"Which do you prefer?"

"Cosette," she answered, not forgetting that 'Euphrasie' was a name she left solely for her mother to call her, her father being one of the occasional exceptions. "But why do you ask?"

"It's a rare name, yet it sounds so familiar…" the man appeared to ponder the name, gazing towards the ceiling in deep thought. "I heard it recently, if only I could recall when!"

"Do not let it stress you out; it will probably come to you in time." her father said reassuringly. "Focus on your recovery, monsieur. That is what is important right now."

"And resting will allow me all the time to think! How the silence may aid my memory!" the man jested, laughter in his voice that ended with an abrupt hiss of pain. "But of course, monsieur, mademoiselle."

Her father nodded and excused himself from the room, heading off towards the kitchen, once again leaving Cosette alone with the wounded man, who, despite what he went through barely a day ago, was in such a jovial mood. Hadn't he just lost a countless number of friends, brothers, on the barricades? Did he not watch them bleed out as they breathed their last breaths? Had he not heard their cries of agony as the ones who were not fortunate enough to die quickly faced a slow and painful death? Surely this creature had some emotional pain towards those events, and that somewhere deep within his heart, he was aching for them.

She was hesitant to ask.

"I apologize for delaying my thanks for what you and, correct me for error, your father, have done for me in these recent hours." he told her apologetically. "My gratitude will never find enough ways to repay you."

"Surviving would be enough." Cosette said tersely, not so much for amusement but to get a point across, whether or not he picked it up being another story. "My father should not have to regret wasting his time with you by carried you through the sewers"

"Then try to survive, I might." the man said half-heartedly, looking down as his fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the edges of the quilt her father had used to cover him. It was in this moment Cosette noticed some sense of pain in the man, the kind of pain that was not of the physical type. There was a clouded, somehow shielded look in his dark brown eyes as he tried to look away, to hide from her. His gaze pointed towards the window, as if watching the sunset would give him answers and soothe his pain, as if it could heal his physical and emotional wounds without fail, and allow him to live without the darkness of the shadows looming over him.

"I am betraying myself, am I not?" he asked suddenly, almost seemingly to himself, even when he turned his head toward her. "Here I am, alive, breathing, while my friends' bodies wait to be claimed and placed into graves, 'less they are never claimed and dumped in a common grave."

"You have gone through more than you should have at your age." Cosette gently told him, returning to her seat. Before he could further speak, she continued. "I may be young, perhaps younger than you, but I believe you and I can agree that is the truth."

"No disrespect intended on you or your father, but I have no right to be living while my friends' hearts are no longer beating." he deadpanned with a sigh. "I should have been left to die with them. Isn't that my right?"

"Another death will not solve any problem, whether you believe that or not. Life is a gift, monsieur, one that is not to be taken lightly."

"Is life a gift when all that you have cared about is gone, that instead of life being a gift so easily taken away that it becomes a burden?" he countered with a slight edge to his voice. "Does life even have a value to one who has lost everything?"

"All life has value, dark times included." Cosette replied with a comforting air, hoping to create some nepenthe. "It may not appear to be of value now, but in time, you will see. Maybe there is a life meant for you here after this struggle."

"What life, might I ask?" the man scoffed, letting out a small gasp of pain in the process. "The life that has me suffer for eternity within a living corpse, while my dearest friends' souls live above without pain, without suffering, in peace? I tell you, I am a lonely soul now, the black sheep among the living of Paris. Perhaps the One above would be kind enough for an infection to take its course and take me with it."

Cosette shook her head disapprovingly. "Surely you do not mean that!"

"And if I do?" he challenged. "Am I willing to pass on over a chance at survival? If it lessens my suffering, so be it!"

"The One above was the one who permitted the gift of life for you, and who are you to think of death in that way?! Countless men have died, young men with bright futures ahead, and you are sitting here, wishing death upon yourself? Has there not been enough death through age, through birth, through cholera, through those barricades?"

"One death will change little—mine."

"Oh, because the death of Lamarque changed little?" Cosette argued, feeling less pitiful. "With Louis-Philippe in power, perhaps not, but his death certainly changed the thoughts of those here within the Parisian landscape."

"Lamarque was the rallying cry meant to reach every ear…and no one came."

"The time was not right." she said gently, her tone quieting as his had. "It may have felt right, but the people did not rise because of their concerns. Many have families who would not survive long without them."

"And what of us?" he breathed deeply, silence taking over in the pause. "Some of us had families, whether by the choice of our parents or by our own accord. What of them? There were men among us who had wives, who had children, others than ourselves who depended on us. Not all of us have the required means to live comfortably, without the breadwinners."

"You made your own sacrifices."

"And the price those families pay? Surely not all of them lost their loved ones by choice?"

"Not all can be helped."

The man stared at her with an unreadable expression, no words coming forth. She could feel a sense of criticism and judgment from him, yet she was not forgetting the overwhelming amount of grief from him. In his eyes, he knew on some level he was right, but at the same time, she was not completely wrong. She had some doubt, yes, about this man and what he believed should be done, what should have happened, but at the same time, she knew that both he and she held some truth in their words.

However, one thing remained at the top of her thoughts.

"Your friends," she began. "How can you be sure that all of them are dead?"

The man let go of his stare, his eyes drifting towards the ground. She felt that the words somehow stung him, causing him more pain than she intended. His breath shook, as if he was ready to speak, but reluctant to do so. Maybe he wished not to speak of it due to the events still being fresh within his mind. Perhaps he was fearful of speaking of it, that saying the words aloud would make it true, give him no choice except to admit the truth and face reality. It would cause him to ignore what little was left and result in the harsh truth with which he had to live with.

He made his reply after a few minutes' wave of silence.

"I witnessed them fall, a majority of them." he answered with a quivering breath. "We were all scared and we ran, hid and fought with our dying breaths. Shelter could not even save us. My consciousness was lost when only four of us remained, and I'm sure the last one that remained standing was executed upon sight, or found a way to die before the National Guard got to him. I hope he died an instant death, or did not suffer long."

"So by chance, not all was lost?"

"I will not stop you from thinking, but I will not give in to false hope." the man replied with certainty in his voice. "His chances of surviving the barricade were slim going into battle, being our leader, our commander, our chief. He would not surrender if asked. He would be a captain on the sea that would allow all others to take the ways to safety while he went down with his ship. If there was a way to survive he would ensure it to others before himself, and if others refused it he would not permit it.

"He knew this, though, going into it, that his life would reach its end there, at the barricade. However, I do not think he planned on the loss of everyone there."

"Perhaps not, but—"

"But he died with the thought that everyone else died with him. Obviously, it is clear that that is not the case, but those final moments, before I lost consciousness, I saw the terror in his eyes as we all fell. He lost so much too quickly, and I cannot help but to believe his suffering then is far worse than my own."

Cosette nodded in understanding. "Still, you cannot be certain he did not survive, or that the others around you may have survived."

"I may not, yet I can still believe it."

"I cannot stop you."

"You are not incorrect with your words, _mademoiselle_." he added, and she could have sworn she saw a hint of a smile upon his face.

* * *

_Author's Note: Reviews are appreciated!_

_Also, if you have any guesses on who the man in Cosette's and Valjean's care is, I would love to hear them!_


End file.
